Brotherly Love
by Annie Blythe
Summary: The story of two cops, one friendship, and where it all began: Oliver and Sam, the Rookie Years.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note:** So... When did these two hooligans become brothers who heckle, eat Dim Sum, and crash on each other's couches? This is the story of two cops, one friendship, and where it all began. It's possible that Ollie has more hair, Sam has more swagger, and both are in desperate need of a reality check. They didn't start off as the veterans they are today :)

Okay, confession: I really just love Oliver a lot, and I'd like to update during the regular season without rerouting canon. Besides, it's fun to paint Fifteen's finest with considerably less finesse.

Rated T for language. And very quickly, because it needs to be said: Hot DAMN. How about that new Global promo?

DISCLAIMER: I do not own _Rookie Blue_.

* * *

**PROLOGUE**

**[October 1995.]**

The mirrored glass of the bathroom was filthy, a veritable graveyard of dirt and grime. It was one of many hallmarks of disrepair in this dive, dented bartops and peeling red paint like property stamps. The bathroom was as low-lit as the adjacent bar, its dark wood paneling casting shadows on the floor and ceiling.

He inhaled, and the cloying, sickly-sweet odor of Lysol filled his nostrils. The work of an apathetic employee, no doubt, looking to finish the job quickly, but the smell proved a welcome distraction. It kept the greater stench at bay, subdued the traces of stale sweat and body odor. Acknowledging the small victory, he leaned against the sink and stared at his reflection.

The face was familiar, having greeted him every morning for twenty-one years.

The hair? That was a different story.

His hand moved of its own volition, touching the crown and sides of his shorn head. With a quiet exhale, he bared his teeth, rubbing the little hair that remained forlornly. The texture felt foreign beneath his fingertips. She had left a little on top, but not much.

_[flashback]_

_Pushing him into a kitchen chair, she draped a towel around his shoulders and manhandled his jaw until he yelped. She was unsympathetic, explaining that his head needed to be in the right position – She didn't want to 'accidentally' nick a nerve. The scissors, once retrieved, were summarily thrust in his hands. Comb caught between her teeth, she examined him with all the seriousness her twenty-four years could afford._

_After a long moment she smirked, ordering him to "hold still." He heard the dull buzzing of the razor, and as she tilted his head toward the sink, he closed his eyes._

"_Gotta be clean-cut for the Academy, Sammy," she said as her hand ruffled the hair at his nape. "They're not gonna take you if you look like some punk version of a Tiger Beat cover, curtained hair and shitty rock t-shirts. You're already wet behind the ears, alright? Don't be a baby about this." _

_With a loud snap of her gum, she brought the blade to his head._

_[end]_

Scrubbing a hand over his jaw, he released a breath. He could practically hear Sarah, proud and mocking in the same moment, that falsely cheerful tone she used because she knew it got under his skin.

_Serve, protect, and don't be a baby, little brother. _

He wasn't being a baby. He'd never cared about his hair – _much_. It was new, that's all. Different. Possibly he would need some time to grow into it.

With a grimace at the mirror, he turned the tap on. The faucet groaned in protest, blending with the soft strains of Tom Cochrane that filtered in from the bar. If he could be bothered to believe in signs, he might actually think someone was 'wishing him well.' As it stood, he was on his own, drinking to his last night of...something.

The paper towel dispenser was empty, and when he noticed, a quiet curse slipped from his lips. Wiping wet hands on his jeans, he kicked the bathroom door open. A brief glance at his watch confirmed that it was still early, time enough for one more, so his decision was made.

Running a hand through hair that wasn't there, he started for the bar.

* * *

He was halfway through his Molson when a ruckus in the corner stole his attention.

He would be lying if he said he hadn't noticed her earlier, long brown hair and dark bangs swept behind a thick headband. Straight from the college district, he surmised, as his eyes roamed her form. She was tall and slim, but she had legs for days, wrapped in tight white jeans and pristine Keds. She and her friend were hanging out by the jukebox, laughing and tossing the occasional dart as they split a pitcher of beer.

He acknowledged the challenge but reasoned that now wasn't the time to be looking for female companionship – however good-looking that companionship might be. He had to report to Scarborough the day after tomorrow, primed and prepped for nearly 20 weeks of training.

There would be other nights. Other girls.

_Besides,_ he noted briefly, _Little too preppy for my taste_.

The guy across the bar had other ideas, apparently. He'd been leering for the better part of a half-hour, finally moving to stand behind the brunette. Without invitation, his hands moved around the high pub table, bracketing her body as he bent to whisper something in her ear.

From his vantage point, Sam could see the girl's shoulders stiffen. If there were any doubt as to her reply, the ambiguity was quashed when her voice carried across the bar. She didn't mince words.

"I'm not interested."

It was delivered with a forceful tone and a chilly, tight-lipped smile.

The man _(in a blazer, really?)_ was not deterred; Sam could hear his faint, persistent murmuring. When she pushed out of his grasp and began to move away, his right hand yanked her waist, pulling her back. She collided with his chest, eyes flashing angrily.

"Hey," she said sharply, "_Get your hands off me_, asshole."

His brain processed several things at once, and his response was instinctual. His fingers fisted at his side, and for a brief second, he entertained the idea of breaking the guy's jaw.

Live and let live – that had always been his policy – as long as both parties were willing. He'd be an idiot to think he could police every bar, every club, picking off thugs and vultures, but this… This was blatant provocation. Everyone in a kilometer's radius heard her "No," and the guy was still pushing. It didn't sit well with him.

At all.

Eyes narrowed, he set down his drink and pushed up the sleeves, half-rising from his stool. _So much for a leisurely night_, he thought with a mirthless chuckle, prepared to interrupt their exchange.

Turned out, the scene ended as quickly as it had begun.

The girl pivoted, and her next move was so quick that Sam almost missed it. Circling the guy's wrist, she threw her weight and caught him off balance, twisting his arm viciously behind his back.

"Hands _off_, bucko. Got it?" she hissed through clenched teeth. As the man cried out in pain, she shoved him away.

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered under his breath, slinking off. "Crazy bitch."

Sam gaped for several moments, eyes trained steadily on the girl. Making an abrupt decision, he reached for his beer and slid off his stool. He wasn't sure what he was going to say, only that he felt compelled to say something.

The girl was talking furiously with her friend as he approached. She had raised the hem of her shirt several inches, examining her skin for bruises and murmuring about the 'pigs' that inhabited bars. Her face, which moments before had been flushed with rage, was slowly returning to its normal color. He thought he heard a name - _Melissa, maybe?_ - as the brunette urged her friend to finish her drink. It was clear she wanted to leave.

"Hey," he greeted, voice low and cautious, as he paused in front of them.

The girl's head snapped up, hand moving to straighten her shirt. Her delicate nose lifted in the air, lined eyes sliding over his form. She took in the cuff on his wrist with a frown, eyes lingering on the hole in his ear. _Observant,_ Sam noted silently. _Opinion, quickly formed._

"That was, uh, a nice move back there," he began conversationally.

"As smooth as _this_ move, I'm sure," she replied dryly, turning back to her friend and not sparing him a second glance. "If you're thinking with the same head that dickweed was, you can take your business elsewhere."

Torn between annoyance and amusement, he raised his hands in deference, backing away. "Just wanted to make sure you were okay, lady."

Her friend elbowed her in the side, making silent, exaggerated commentary with her eyebrows. "_Rude_," she whispered. "He was just being nice."

Sam smiled, flashing white teeth at the petite, blonde friend. The brunette seemed unharmed – if her sharp tongue could be considered confirmation – but he knew a dead end when he saw one, so he simply nodded at the two girls. As he turned on his heel, intent on returning to his vacated stool, he witnessed the blonde gesturing wildly, urging her friend to say something.

"I'm fine." The brunette's voice carried after him, forced politeness in her tone. She smiled tightly, exhaling with a bored sigh. "_Thanks_."

The blonde flipped her hair behind her shoulder, shooting the brunette an incredulous, disapproving look. "Yeah, thanks for checking on us," she interrupted eagerly, keen to recover the reins from her friend. She played with an earring, watching Sam out of the corner of her eye. "What's, um... What's your story?"

It was her flirtatious tone that caused the gear-shift in his head. The blonde was interested, and if he was being honest, his interest was marginally piqued. She was cute, all bright lips and a wide smile. Maybe tonight...

Well, maybe nothing _yet_.

He wasn't looking for someone tonight, but if the opportunity arose, who was he to shoot it down? Especially if that someone was blonde_. _It's not like he was leaving for Academy_ tomorrow _morning.

Swallowing, he redirected his attention, smile curling his lips.

"No story. Headed to the Academy in a few days," he said easily. Setting his drink on the high pub table, he leaned in and lowered his voice conspicuously. "Serve. Protect. Keep pretty ladies in Toronto's bars safe, you know."

The blonde giggled, sliding half a meter closer. "So, like. You're almost a cop? You remind me of...Wait, what was that one show with Johnny Depp?"

The brunette snorted into her drink, raising her eyes as she stared at him dubiously. His words were making an impression, just not the kind he had intended. "By my watch, you were about thirty seconds too late, _copper_. And no offense, but you seem a little young to be policing the streets."

He ignored the obvious jab. "I'm, uh, more experienced than you might think." His eyes flickered back to the blonde, who was smiling coyly.

A scornful laugh from the brunette disrupted his gameplay.

"Does that line actually work on girls?" she asked, her nose wrinkling in disdain. "It's pretty bad. Like. _Bad_."

He shrugged, spinning on his heel to address the girl, more amused than perturbed. "Usually works. Not tonight, I guess."

"No, not tonight," the brunette agreed, clearly suppressing another laugh. "We've already hit our quota of hotshot males with something to prove."

"Too bad," Sam replied, eyes swiveling toward the blonde. He offered another smile, locking his gaze with hers. "I was, uh. Hoping I could buy you a drink. Make amends for my gender's poor behavior."

"Yeah, I don't think so," the brunette said, grabbing her friend's arm. Shaking her head infinitesimally, she looked pointedly at the exit. "Riveting as the conversation has been, _we_ need to take off."

"Good night," she continued, pushing past him. "Marissa, c'mon."

"Okay," Sam said, drumming his knuckles on the bar and raising his beer in silent salute. "Maybe some other time. Good night, Marissa. And Marissa's friend. Good luck at the hospital."

Smile on his lips, he watched the brunette freeze at his words. She spun on her heel slowly, face guarded, and took a careful step forward.

"What do you mean by that?" she asked, grey eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"You're a nurse, right?" he surmised, holding her gaze. Raising his hand, he ticked off bullet points with his fingers. "We're just around the corner from General, you're wearing tennis shoes instead of heels for a night at the bar, and uh, the ink on your fingers? Probably finished your shift with a lot of paperwork, huh?"

He smiled lazily, pointing in the direction of the door, where moments before the 'pig' had disappeared. "And, uh. You have good sense about how to cause pain, if your earlier display was any indication. Seemed like a sensible guess."

"That doesn't prove anything," she maintained, tossing her head. Resting a hand on her hip, she raised one eyebrow challengingly. "Except your nosiness. And the fact that you put stock in stereotypes."

"No," he said slowly, conceding. "I guess it doesn't _prove_ anything..."

He nodded toward the discarded glasses on the table. "But your toast to "Being done with clinicals"– Oh, 'bout an hour ago? That was a solid clue."

She was silent for a long moment, eyes assessing as she tapped her foot. He gazed back steadily as she performed her nonverbal inquest.

"Huh. Maybe you _will_ make halfway decent police," she said finally, pursing her lips. "You're not as dumb as you look."

"Funny," he deadpanned, taking a long pull of his beer and letting his eyes linger on her headband. "You're _exactly_ as prissy as you look."

He was baiting her, expecting anger or indignation, some reflexive reaction of young, entitled female. Instead she smiled, vague amusement written on her face.

"Exactly," she confirmed, lips curling upward. "Deters most of the losers, and the other ones I take care of…" She let the sentence hang, miming a sharp jerk of the wrist.

His swiped his tongue across the back of his teeth. Her response was unexpected, and if he was being honest...

"Swarek," he said at long last, sticking out his hand. "Sam Swarek. And you are?"

The corners of her mouth twitched, lips pressing together as she took the proffered hand. "I'm fresh out of 007 routines, that's what I am. Let's stick with Zoe. Just Zoe. Good night."

* * *

_Worth continuing through the summer season? It's different, I know. Let me know what you think!_


	2. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** First of all, thanks for your reviews, PMs, and general encouragement, guys! As you can imagine, the Shaw situation introduced in 3x02 has thrown me for a loop, but I've had this story mapped out for some time, and Zoe will remain an integral part of it. I can only hope they reconcile soon… Heartbroken Ollie takes the wind out of my sails and sends my muse into hibernation. (Poor guy.) As we learn more about Sam's personal history – and it seems we will this season – I will likely have to ask you to suspend disbelief. So much for writing a story that wouldn't be rerouted by canon, huh? :)

Buckets of exposition in this chapter, but we'll see Ollie and Sam interact very soon. Finally, forgive the title. I hold Joey Lawrence responsible for any campy associations.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own _Rookie Blue_.*

(*Okay, I should add a few other things: I have never been a resident of Toronto, a cadet-in-training/rookie, or a twenty-something male from the mid-90s. Research is an integral part of any writing endeavor, and I promise to do my best, but please forgive any glaring anachronisms or oversights... I have a feeling that despite my best efforts, they will pop up every now and again.)

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE**

**[March 1996.]**

Oliver Shaw woke to an anthem of classic rock, fuzzy and insistent from the nightstand beside him. The static jarred him from sleep, cutting in and out intermittently, and he felt the vibrations of each guitar riff in his bones.

_Next time, easy on the Crown Royal, killer._

Throwing a pale, freckled arm over his eyes, he blindly slapped the top of his clock radio, silencing the noise. He shifted restlessly before turning on his side, breath escaping in a quiet yawn. The warm mattress was every bit an invitation, far preferable to the spring chill of Toronto's air. Resuming his position on the down pillow, he allowed his eyes to drift shut.

_Toronto._

Realization struck him with the blunt force of a barreling freight train, and his eyes popped open comically. Bolting upright, he squinted through half-mast lids, gaze fixed on the clock. The glowing red digits confirmed the date and time, and without further prompting, a wide grin spread across his face.

Eagerly tossing the duvet aside, he slipped out of bed and rubbed sleep from his bleary eyes. _First day at the one-five,_ he reflected, stretching his arms. With a shake of his head, he glanced out the small bedroom window. The sky was still dark, the city largely asleep as he acknowledged the day before him.

_First day of the rest of your life._

Reluctant pipes groaned and clanked as he stood before the bathroom sink, waiting for a decent stream of warm water. With the flat of his palm, he wiped away the steam that clung to the vanity mirror and rocked back on his heels. Only when he was satisfied that the fine blonde stubble had been removed from his jaw, did he drop his gaze to the bathroom counter. With a slight grimace, he retrieved the small, black comb and silently saluted his reflection.

_Drew the short stick with follicular genes_, he acknowledged with a wry smile. He scratched the back of his head with the curve of his fingertips, a nervous tick that stemmed from adolescence. _Nervous tick_, he reflected further, _with a pretty limited time frame_.

"Pompadour was a lost cause," he muttered to his reflection. "Better to just embrace your fate, Moby."

Walking into the kitchen nook – and nook it was, Oliver could touch all three walls at once – he lit the gas stove and filled a saucepan with water. After a quick shuffle through the cupboards, he came up with a carton of whole grain oats, a bottle of maple syrup, and some brown sugar.

_Breakfast of champions_, he told himself against better judgment, anticipating a withering look from the closest cereal box. He quickly filled the coffeepot with water, scooping the grounds onto a clean filter. His mind was always sharper with a cup of coffee in hand.

Eight minutes later, he let warmth flood his body as he sipped from his mug, body jittery in a way that was unrelated to caffeine. His gaze fell to the stove top, and he silently mused over the prospect of a paycheck, the convenience it would bring him. _First order of business_, he noted, looking down at his half-empty bowl of oatmeal, _Buy a microwave._

He glanced down at the plastic packing crate on which his feet were propped and smirked. _Maybe some real furniture, too._

The apartment was new, first and last month's rent paid by his parents after his college graduation. It wasn't the nicest place – he can still remember his mother's face when she saw it – but it was clean and livable. More importantly, he could make monthly rent payments. The city of Toronto wasn't known for being particularly generous with its employees, so he'd take what he could get with a copper's paycheck. The whole reason for coming to the city was independence, anyway. If he wanted his parents supplementing his income, he would have stayed in Kingston.

_Serve, protect, and learn to balance a budget_, _copper._

Exiting the apartment shortly thereafter, Oliver locked the door and moved to pocket his keys. His mind was on his car, and more specifically, the muffler. He wasn't keen on having an engine that announced itself from two kilometers out, particularly not when the end point was a police division. The car had been a shitty hand-me-down from his older brother Greg when he left for Wall Street. _So driven,_ his father had said, _So motivated. You know, son, you really should consider..._

He sure as hell wasn't groomed for Wall Street or a life of business, Oliver knew that. Like every copper, he had a reason for wanting to wear the blues, and his…

_Well,_ he acknowledged, throat dry. _His was as good as any._

"Morning, Oliver!"

_Shit. Be cool, man. Be cool._

He spun on his heel slowly, rubbing his neck in a poor attempt to look casual. With a half-hearted smile, he raised his hand in greeting to the pretty girl down the hall.

"Hey, Cathy."

She was a new resident. He had only gotten the nerve to talk to her once in the mail room, asking how she liked the building; if her water pressure was as terrible as his. A teacher's aide at a private preparatory school, Cathy usually left around the same time each morning - clacking heels, swinging skirts, and strawberry-blonde hair framing a soft, white smile.

"You start today, right?"

He stepped forward, surprise evident in his tone. "Yep. 15 Division." Clearing his throat, he scuffed the hallway tile aimlessly with the toe of his lace-up Doc Martens. "You make a point of knowing coppers' schedules?"

Her smile widened, and she straightened her skirt. "My boyfriend works at 43 Division. He mentioned that rookies start this week, so I just assumed it was the same with other divisions."

"Yeah," Oliver echoed, plucking at his belt loops. He scratched the back of his head with his index finger, silently cursing the tick again. _Maybe he'd outgrow the habit when his hair finally outgrew its welcome_. Dropping his hand, he fingered a button of his flannel and smiled for her benefit. "Right, that makes sense."

Of course there was a boyfriend. If his twenty-three years had taught him anything, it was the marked downside to average builds and non-threatening demeanors: Pretty girls trusted you to help them with homework (high school), walk them back to their dorms (college), and feed their pets/collect their mail/water their plants (every other occasion) while they vacationed with Fabio McMuscles.

"Well, I should…" He jerked his head in the direction of the parking lot, bobbing between his right and left feet. "Have a nice day, okay?" Hitching his bag higher on his shoulder, he started for the steps.

"Good luck!" she called after him, her enthusiasm nearly infectious. "I know first days can be pretty nerve-wracking."

First days _could_ be nervewracking, he knew that. Still, there was a reason his body had been humming with raw energy all morning, a reason why even now, his heart swelled.

He was ready for this job. Prepared to a walk a beat and connect with people on a human level; eager to put his Academy skills to use, to serve and protect. Today was a day where anything could happen. Hell, he might even have his first collar in the books by sundown.

The possibilities were endless.

"Cathy?" he said quickly, spinning on his heel. "Thanks."

With a spring in his step, he hopped down the stairs, goofy grin affixed to his face.

* * *

"Sa-am!" Sarah Swarek hollered, her voice carrying down the small hallway of their brick townhome. Her foot tapped impatiently as she moved around the kitchen, sorting through a sink of clattering dishes. "Get your ass in here; you're going to be late."

With one last glance in the mirror, Sam dropped his razor by the sink, sweeping a callused hand over his jaw and throat. The skin was smooth, and nodding in approval, he slipped the t-shirt over his head. Grey like the weather outside, the fabric stretched tightly across his chest.

He spared a thought for his hair, relieved at its rebound rate. It had grown in, thick and full since Sarah's attempts at salon magic, and during his weeks at Academy, he had made a point to use a real barber. It was marginally longer now, enough that he could run a hand through it and justify the length of his sideburns. He acknowledged the small victories - Foremost, keeping sharp objects out of his sister's hands and away from his head.

Slinging his duffel over his back, Sam strode out of his bedroom and made his way to the kitchen. He inhaled sharply, the smell of coffee warming his lungs as he ducked through the entryway.

"I swear, if this hair hadn't grown back–" He stopped short in the kitchen, eyes flickering around the room in surprise. "Sare…?"

Sarah stood in the center of the kitchen, hands clutching an oversize, dark green mug as she blew on the steaming liquid. Her eyes were wide and bright, and she shrugged, hiding a smile. "Happy Copper Day, Sammy."

Blue streamers were threaded through the wooden slats of his chair, and a blueberry muffin rested on a plate, one unlit, white candle protruding from the top.

He was speechless for a long moment. For the life of him, Sam couldn't remember the last time they had a tablecloth on their kitchen table, nevermind one that was ironed and clean.

"No flowers," Sarah said, breaking the silence. "Made it too girly. I know you have a rep to keep up with."

She raised her mug in silent salute, continuing, "Oh, and for future reference... That new bakery on the corner? Makes a kickass lemon poppyseed muffin. I thought about saving it for you, but I hear poppy can mess with your system. You know, in case they randomly drug test you today or something," she finished with a smirk.

"You're nuts," he murmured softly, shaking his head as he observed the scene. Swallowing thickly, still incredulous, he pulled her in for a quick squeeze. "Really pulling for that Sister of the Year Award, huh?"

She wrinkled her nose in response, feigning annoyance. They shied away from anything overly affectionate, but every now and again, something slipped out. Pointing to the chair, she bustled over to the stove. "Sit down, punk."

He obliged, dropping into the seat. "Service with a smile, huh?"

"Don't get used to it," she added wryly, sliding a plate of eggs and bacon in his direction. Her tone had a hard edge to it, bossy teenage voice belying the softness in her eyes. "One time thing, and only because it's your first day."

Leaning over his chair back, she crooked an arm around his shoulders. "Still. Proud of you, kid."

He imagined it might be weird for some siblings, twenty-something brother and sister living together, but he and Sarah made it work. _Our normal_, Sarah liked to joke, _Just shy of everyone else's crazy_. With their mother gone – Well, he knew they both felt a little more useful when they were together. For all her maternal instincts and good-natured razzing, Sarah counted on him.

He might be loath to admit it, but he relied on her too, even on days when everything seemed taxing. Despite the shit she threw at him, no steady girlfriend and his hooligan hair, he liked their version of normal. Too much chaos in the last decade and change, anyway.

(He remembers that summer when everything was silent, and he's grateful for everything they have now – pointed jabs and infrequent hugs and a streak of fierce protectiveness on both sides.)

It wasn't forever, wasn't permanent, and he knew that. It had made sense, financially and otherwise, while he and Sarah were in school. Ever the academic, Sarah was working toward her master's in clinical psychology. He had exactly zero aspirations for higher education – police exams and the Academy were enough of an aspiration; hell, he'd known since he was nine – but he spent two years shuffling his way through night classes at McLaughlin because his mother had wanted it. For no other reason _than_ his mother had wanted it, if he were being honest.

_You'll have a better chance of acceptance,_ she had said in that low, quiet voice of hers, a reminder of Sam's childhood, of bedtime stories and normalcy. _Education is the foundation for your career, Sam. _

He was seventeen then. Two months later, her request became his promise, homage to her memory.

"So…New kid on the block," Sarah said conversationally, interrupting his reverie. She took a sip of her green tea, eyeing him speculatively. "Gotta remember to hang tough."

"Hilarious," Sam deadpanned as he shoveled a forkful of eggs into his mouth. He aimed for cool nonchalance, but all these years later, hearing her joke still brought a smile to his face. He masked the wry twist of his mouth with another large bite. "You're a real riot."

"This coming from Mr. Hambulance himself?" she quipped. Pulling her legs up onto the chair, she propped her chin up with her knees, studying him. "You have no room to talk, buddy."

He swallowed a sip of coffee, rocking back on the legs of his chair. "Hambulance was a _classic_."

"Ohh-kay," she drawled, rolling her eyes. "If by classic, you mean ancient and devoid of any real humor. Like Uncle Ernie after two scotch and sodas. Christ, the stories he would tell about the hockey rink..."

Sarah shook her head, censoring herself. Setting her mug on the table, she studied him with a cool, appraising look. "You sure you don't want me to drive you to 15 Division?"

He cocked an eyebrow, catching himself on the wall as his chair tipped forward. "I'm sure," he said firmly, eyes glinting with vague amusement. God almighty, he did not need to be _that_ guy, first day of kindergarten all over again: Sarah, fixing his shoelace and dropping him off at the classroom door, reminding him to keep his milk money in his front pocket and avoid the fifth graders at recess. She was a little mother back then.

_Still is_, he reflected, staring at his plate and smiling. Just with a little more spunk, a little more fire. A killer right hook. Choking back a laugh, he recalled the day he gave her Barbies military-issue haircuts._ Fire was always there, come to think of it._

"This," he said abruptly, waving his hand around the kitchen. "This was really nice of you, Sarah." He hesitated, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. "Thanks."

"You're a good kid, Sam," she said quietly. Standing up and swiping his plate, she cleared her throat, her voice rising. "You dress like a chump, but who knows? Maybe you'll move past that; make solid police."

"Now get out of here," she ordered, flicking the dish towel in his direction. "Or I'll get the camera out - Little Sammy Swarek, first day on the job. Can never have too many options for the family Christmas card, right?"

* * *

For all the years he spent thinking about life on the force, Oliver never quite imagined it like this.

Things he expected: The sun shining down, the wind at his back, and a heady, rush of excitement as he burst through the front doors of the division. Things he did not anticipate: Grey skies and slick roads, foot hovering over the brake while he prayed he didn't hydroplane.

Pulling into the division parking lot, Oliver killed the engine and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. With a slow exhale, he steadied himself.

His eyes wandered, and he caught sight of a solitary figure approaching the division. He swallowed the chuckle in his throat, wondering briefly if every division had a James Dean type. If last night was any indication… Well, the jeans and leather jacket he was currently wearing just enhanced the image.

_[flashback]_

_Oliver's face hit the bar, cheekbone bouncing off the hard, aged wood. A subdued "oof" escaped from his chest, lungs constricting as the senior officer released his grip on Oliver's neck._

_"Coppers," a uniformed copper crowed from behind the bar. "Time to welcome the newest batch of rookies." _

_Shuffling through their IDs like cue cards, he called out their names. "Daniel Levine, Elena Martinez, Oliver Shaw, and Sam Swarek."_

_"The vets here know the drill, our 'initiation' as it were. If you have more than half an ounce of common sense in that thick rookie skull, you'll have figured it out by now: Get out of those cuffs anyway you know how. First one _free _drinks_ _for _free_. Everybody else _pays_."_

Right_, Oliver thought. _Okay.

_Clearing his throat, he turned to the guy next to him. __He knew Swarek nominally from the Academy. Bit of a loner type, quiet, but had a keen eye for investigative details. Hand him a firearm, and he was a ringer at tactical training, too – The guy could get a shot off like no one's business. Still, Oliver wasn't sure what to make of him. Vigilante attitude and conspicuous biceps and from what Oliver could glean, remarkable self-assurance._

_"Didn't expect this, huh?" he muttered to the dark-haired man._

"_Kinda naïve not to anticipate hazing," Sam replied with a smirk, his eyes fixed on the officer counting them down. He lowered his voice marginally, body buzzing with energy. "Guess it just depends on your outlook. You one of those lifelong coppers? Sherriff's badge and gun when you were little?"_

"_Didn't say that," Oliver replied, shrugging._

_"It's a job for me," he continued, when Sam didn't respond. "I mean, don't get me wrong... I care about it. But it's a job, you know?"_

_Sam hummed noncommittally. Oliver didn't have much time to dwell on his disinterest, as the officer standing before them drop__ped his arms, signaling the four rookies to begin._

_Walking calmly over to a group of pretty girls, Sam smiled widely, dimples summoned like a genie from a bottle. In a low, earnest voice, he asked if any of them had a bobby pin or a pair of tweezers to help a fledgling copper out. For a moment, all Oliver could do was stand and watch, dumbstruck, as two girls' hands immediately shot to their purses._

_A full three seconds passed before Oliver shook his head, half-disbelievingly, half-admiringly, and sprang into action. His plan had formulated as soon as the cuffs had clicked, but the success rate was iffy. Still, they were fated to look ridiculous tonight, so… Might as well go all-in, right?_

_Dropping to a crouch, Oliver twisted his arms and legs, testing his range of motion. With a shadow of a smile, he went to work. _

_He might not have the fastest mile time, but there was a marked upside to those "asinine headspins." His body was flexible enough that when he dropped to a crouch, he could loop his cuffed hands under his legs. _Yeah, screw you, Greg,_ he thought with satisfaction._

_With his hands now in front of him, Oliver scanned the room, looking for an instrument with which to pick the lock. His eyes fell on a waiter's corkscrew, resting by a wine rack behind the bar. Hesitating briefly, he considered his options. _

They did say 'any way you know how.'

_Thrusting his upper body forward, Oliver leaned over the bartop. By extending his arms into a full stretch, he managed to get his fingertips around the edge of the corkscrew. Tool in hand, he quickly drew back, using his thumb to flick open the retractable foil cutter. _

_Sam, meanwhile, had given up on the bobby pin that the first girl had bent open and offered. He now had eyebrow tweezers in hand, and he strode over to where Oliver was wrestling with the foil cutter._

_Oliver could sense that Swarek knew what to do – It was simply harder to maneuver the tool when his hands were behind him. _

_Turning his back to the bar, Sam craned his neck over his shoulder and went to work. Eyes narrowed in concentration, he jammed the tip of the tweezers into the cuffs, relying on the mirror behind the bar to guide his movements._

_In the interim, Oliver had balanced the corkscrew in his left palm, wedging the sharp point of the foil cutter into the lock of the cuffs. Twisting it back and forth, gently and slowly, he wiggled the blade and listened for the tell-tale click._

_His breath was coming in harsh pants, and he could hear Sam cursing softly next to him. The bar was so noisy with jeers and catcalls, Oliver nearly missed the soft _pop_ of the cuffs as the lock released._

_The bar erupted loudly as Oliver lifted his hands in the air and shook the cuffs off, a dazed but pleased expression on his face. Turning, he faced Sam, whose hands were also free – Just two seconds too late._

_Sam stared at him, bemused, and Oliver returned his gaze with a shrug._

_"Said it was a job," he explained, a twinkle in his eye. "Never said I wasn't good at it."_

_[end]_

_I did enjoy that whisky, _Oliver acknowledged. _Always tastes better when you're not the one paying for it._

Still, the night hadn't been a total loss for Swarek, at least not as far as Oliver could tell. After the initiation, Sam had returned the tweezers to the petite, raven-haired girl and spent the rest of the evening in a low-lit corner of the bar, flashing the dimples easily, so…

Shaking himself from reverie, Oliver smiled, popping the car door open and stepping into the rain. Not even the weather was going to dampen his attitude today.

_First day,_ he repeated to himself. _Anything can happen._


End file.
